


personal time difference attack

by orphan_account



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 02:25:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1801957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>he watches and he waits; he counts the seconds between kenma's hiccups the way you count seconds between lightning and its rolling thunder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	personal time difference attack

**Author's Note:**

> [sobbing because my porn writing skills are rusty as hell] [and this fic being unbeta'd isn't helping]

It's not fair to say it's a game of cat and mouse. Kenma stretches across Tetsurou's lap with something resembling a pout; his knuckles turn white when he grips his phone tighter, then return to their normal coloring once he relaxes again. Tetsurou combs his fingers through the half-assed dye job, snorting when his hands get shaken off.

"You should keep it blonde," he murmurs. Kenma doesn't reply, but the way he tilts his head to show off one ear shows he's listening well enough -- depsite the nonchalant way he does it, like he's keeping the overhead light from glaring on his screen. Tetsurou chuckles, moving his fingers back to picking through the mismatching hair. "All the first years'll look up to you."

"I don't care that much." Kenma shakes his head again - to get his hands out of it for the second time, returning to its tilted position when he's done so. Tetsurou watches the rise and fall of his chest through the opening in his shirt, wondering if he should get a smaller size - again - for the winter. "I don't know if I'll keep playing when you graduate --" Tetsurou glances at Kenma's face instinctively; it's deceptively stoic, but his lips are tight at the sides and he's concentrating too much on something as simple as a point and click app -- "so I might not even have any first years to impress."

"You didn't quit after I moved on from junior, did you?"

Kenma's fingers hesitate over his game; the screen flashes red, the credits roll, and he closes the app.

"No. And I want to play against Shouyou next year, too." Kenma turns around; his shoulders are bony against his thighs, but Tetsurou ignores his own discomfort to curl over and press their foreheads together.

"I guess," Kenma breathes, sleepy eyes half-lidded like usual, "I can't quit." He pauses, then closes his eyes. "But dye's such a pain in the ass. I don't wanna do it."

"That all?" He grins, watching the setter's face pull into a frown. "I'll help you out this time. You probably had your mom do it last, right?"

"I did it all myself," Kenma huffs. It's cute, how he gets all defensive over the stupidest things. Tetsurou grins wider when the cat-like eyes slide open, though the longer they go without talking the less his grin wants to stay. Kenma stares at him like he's a free ball, waiting to be tossed, and his throat constricts as uncomfortably as his shorts do.

"People say we're too close." It's a subject that feels like a quick he can't block; Kenma tilts his head just so, his fingers stretching on his crossed arms. Tetsurou laughs and licks his lips - then Kenma's, snickering at the vague disgust that surfaces. His voice isn't as perturbed as his expression would suggest, though; "What do you think?"

"I think people need to mind their own business." Too close or not close enough -- Tetsurou slides his arms beneath Kenma and pulls him up into his lap. He ignores the wiggling discomfort, because he knows it'll settle - and it does, once the discomforted gets comfortable. The gears don't start to click against each other until he feels his back against the wall, Kenma's hands on his shoulders firm and guiding. "Your call."

"Mmm. Personal time difference, I guess."

"Nngn," Tetsurou moans, with his wrist pressed against his mouth; Kenma just gives him a look of _are you serious_ and slides his hands down. They're a small weight on his stomach, where they come to rest, and Tetsurou cranes his neck to the side since going back isn't an option.

"You said we'd get it by the time we were in high school." Kenma kneads his stomach quietly, eyes half-lidded like always. They're not sleepy though; they're bright, and his lips are twitching as much as the tail he can almost imagine would be. "I think we could use a little more practice. It's usable, but it's not perfect."

"That's our brain," Tetsurou breathes - though he's having a harder time of it the lighter Kenma gets, until it's just fingertips tracing the slope of his navel. He slides down the wall a little - Kenma jerks, eyebrows pressing together - and he nearly laughs at the expression. Nearly, because the moment his mouth opens to do so Kenma leans in and kisses him instead. Open-mouthed and, frankly, hot. His partner doesn't share his view - he shudders, and not in a really good way, when Tetsurou slides their tongues together - but he tolerates it and that's enough.

Always has been.

He's glad he decided on shorts, despite the autumn chill; they're easy to pull down. The elastic band stretches against his cock somewhat uncomfortably, but not in an entirely bad way. Kenma curls his toes into the bed and adjusts himself, until he's low enough to comfortably curl and lick the tip of his cock. Tetsurou wiggles his hips a little, prompting Kenma to sniff and draw away. The hands that softly wrap around him are wet from spit and only a little warmer than the air, but it's fine. Better than them being cold from the draft.

"We're going to try for a longer delay," Kenma murmurs. He works Tetsurou's cock slowly, stopping only to wetten it before he gets back to his pace. _Fuck delays,_ he thinks when Kenma speeds up a little, mimicking the rhythm of their last match, and squeezes the setter between his thighs when the first stop comes. The handjob continues on, pausing in short bursts that make him feel like his breath's about to choke in his throat every time and that make Kenma shake every time he forces it out.

He wants to ask Kenma if he can even do it - if he can handle it - but the pace speeds up to the beat of his pulse, wild and out of control, and his fingers grip the bed sheets like they're a rope in the sea he's about to drown in, like he's pulling himself up for air because his head's swimming and

it stops, crashes, but he doesn't cum because Kenma's only pressing the base of his hand to his cock and he's watching him the way a cat does a mouse. Tetsurou doesn't look away as Kenma mouths numbers - one, two, three, four - and as the beat of his heart slows but doesn't waver in its heavy density.

On five, it begins all over again. The build-up, the sea, the crash, the call. It goes to six the next time; seven the time after that; eight is hard to withstand, with his feet curling behind Kenma and the way the latter gasps his numbers instead of mouths them like he's the one getting off here; nine is when he releases, elbows tight against his sides. Kenma wipes his face off with his sleeve, giving it a dirty look, and slips his jacket off and to the side of the bed.

Tetsurou sets to devouring him instantly; he nips and kisses his shoulders, his neck, the line of his jaw. Kenma's hands grip his shorts, pulling them down further. It makes him laugh - evidently not good, because Kenma shakes and bats his arm lightly - and he works the tight fingers off so he can pick his setter up instead. This routine isn't one they've practiced - it's new, and he's leading the charge because he wants to and because Kenma's never had an issue with following him - so he has to make sure Kenma's legs are secure around his shoulders and that he's able to hold himself up against the wall before he does anything.

"Ready?" he asks, even though he's already tugging down Kenma's pants with the utmost care not to jostle him too much. He manages to get them down enough to at least see the erection through his underwear, straining the fabric, and that's good enough for what he wants to do. They'll be more prepared next time. Tetsurou breathes easy despite the buzzing in his head and doesn't wait for his partner to answer before he turns his head and runs his tongue along the covered shaft. Kenma jerks - Tetsurou has to catch both of them before they suffer injury - and he adjusts his position a little more. Lower on the wall, Kenma's feet almost touching the bed, forehead against the wall. Tetsurou looks up just to make sure and keeps his eyes up when he starts again.

He grins when Kenma's eyes get a little less focused.

"You're not allowed," Kenma huffs -- or whines. It's hard to tell with his voice so soft, but Tetsurou keeps on sucking and stopping to count the seconds between shudders. Like thunder between lightning strikes - it tells how close Kenma is, even if he can tell by the smell of sweat and how Kenma's turned from breathing to hiccuping the second his lips get around his cock. Tetsurou pretends not to hear - not ignores, because he's _never_ ignored Kenma, you know? - and keeps on, until Kenma's chest is against the wall and his hands are fisting into Tetsurou's bedhead painfully.

He stops for a moment - a second; he counts it in his head and in the dizzying haze of sex and in the jump of Kenma's stomach - and lets Kenma finish before he risks his hair being pulled out by its roots. Kenma's always so quiet, but this time he whines (yowls, if they want to keep on with their cat nickname) loud enough to make Tetsurou start to worry if his mom's heard it. There's no sound aside from their breathing and the way Kenma's head still rocks against the wall, getting softer as he eases off riding the pace set by his tongue, so he makes on the assumption that his mom's still out at the market buying stuff for dinner.

Gently, he slides Kenma off of his shoulders and cuddles him; he doesn't stop even when the latter grunts and tries to push him off. It's his moment, he decides. He gets to enjoy this as long as he wants. As if his mind's been read, Kenma stops trying to squirm away and lets Tetsurou suck at the crook of his neck for as long as he wants. Or maybe it's resignation. He sinks into it either way, enjoying the flutter of Kenma's pulse against his cheek, and lets him go just before Kenma can start fidgeting again.

It's just to change his underwear, but the boxers are too big and they hang precariously off of Kenma's hips. Tetsurou keeps them up with a hand, prompting Kenma to scrunching his nose in irritation disgused as fatigue, and slides his other arm around his shoulders.

"I think what we've got fine," he mutters. Kenma lays his cheek on his shoulder, forehead creasing, and Tetsurou nudges his cheek with his chin. "Before. You said people said we were too close."

"Mmm," Kenma hums back, then shifts closer -- as close as he can manage to. Tetsurou curls his fingers into the band of his - now Kenma's - boxers and wishes that getting Kenma to care less about what people thought was as easy as just saying for him to.


End file.
